


You Won't Believe How This Woman Proved The Pen Is More Trouble Than The Sword!

by Rosencrantz



Category: The Chronicles of Chrestomanci - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Futurefic, Gen, Post-Canon, fairytale menace, ho ho ho run for your lives, julia was covering for janet, old foes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 04:45:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17073716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosencrantz/pseuds/Rosencrantz
Summary: Marianne's stories have a tendency to come true, so she keeps jumping genres to try and avoid that little issue.It's not working.This story draws primarily from The Lives of Christopher Chant and The Pinhoe Egg.





	You Won't Believe How This Woman Proved The Pen Is More Trouble Than The Sword!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ironed_orchid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironed_orchid/gifts).



> Thank you very much to Vae for the beta!

Marianne Pinhoe did not give up writing and writing didn't give up Marianne Pinhoe. This, of course, led to some problems.

What Marianne wrote came true. She would try to make it fantastical or surreal, but the stories would still find a way to worm their way into reality just as when she created 'Princess Irene' as a child. Irene Yeldham, real as Marianne, was doing a marvelous job as Gammer. And she looked exactly as Marianne had described her.

The problem, really, was that Marianne couldn't be sure if these things happened _because_ she had written them or she had somehow magically _learned_ of them.

At any rate, after the incident when she'd tried to write a murder mystery, she mostly stuck to light-hearted tales. 

Her greatest fan as she grew up had turned out to be Millie Chant, the wife of the Chrestomanci. While Marianne had grown up being taught at the castle, Millie had shared with her the books from her childhood she loved (and named herself after! Marianne still wasn't quite over finding out that the nice woman who first taught her about transitive verbs had once been a goddess) and one day Marianne shyly told Millie that she was a writer too.

That was how Millie became Marianne's biggest fan. She'd given up on trying to get Marianne to submit her stories for publication (the side effects were too strange for Marianne) but she was always there to read and listen to anything Marianne created. She didn't feel like the lady of the castle, but more like a supportive aunt.

"Stories… they're magic," Millie had said to Marianne. "I remember the Millie stories giving me a thirst for life that was enough to make me leave everything behind just to experience it. Your stories have power too."

Marianne still liked to keep her stories mostly private, but for every one she wrote, she would carefully create a copy on fresh paper with a spell that Millie had taught her. It was a useful spell. Marianne used it to keep her shopping list consistent from week to week so she wouldn't forget the tomatoes or the garlic. 

These copies she would send to Millie. The next day, without fail, a letter would appear on her desk with Millie's thoughts on the new story.

Except recently. She had sent two stories in two weeks and Millie hadn't replied to a single one. 

Marianne was trying not to worry. It wasn't like she'd done another of _those_ stories. No grand lady had been offed or kidnapped by evil wizards, a gryphon hadn't eaten anyone in her stories, there had been no dramatic reveals necessitating someone fleeing the country for parts unknown. So Marianne was mostly sure her stories hadn't somehow cursed Millie.

Mostly. She had reread them over and over since she'd given up on any response on the second. They'd been about princesses dancing out their shoes. The old fairy tale, yes, but she'd wanted to talk about the elven land that had kept pulling them back. She'd written one, first how the girls had ended up there, and then another that was about the adventures of one who had stayed.

Marianne knew she could simply write to Millie and ask if she'd received the stories, but somehow that felt presumptuous to her. 

"Not that she'd ever say it was presumptuous of me," said Marianne softy to herself as she packed. "She'd just be nice."

Marianne was in her apartment in London, preparing to go home to Ulverscote for the holidays. Being a ward of Chrestomanci had its perks, when it came to your third year of university housing. Although Chrestomanci had told her, in his vague way, that she had no idea how jealous the people of Twelve-B would be of her. 

London was a nice enough place, but it wasn't home. Some days that made it nicer.

As part of her holidays, she would spend part of Christmas at the Castle itself. She'd see Cat (who had not grown so tall), Klartch (who had), and all the other children she'd grown up with, learning magic side by side. 

There'd be a lighting of the tree and lots of very dignified, polite visiting because the children she'd grown up with were all dignified, polite adults adults now.

Roger and Joe would probably start a fire in a workshop again.

She could ask how Millie was then. Maybe nothing was wrong and Millie had just hated the stories. That would… hurt, Marianne admitted to herself, but it was much better than Millie being in some sort of peril caused by Marianne's strange connection to the written word.

She cajoled her cat, Lilybelle, into her carrying box. She was a castle cat, a kitten Millie had presented her with on her way to university because, Millie said, no girl should go without a cat. Lilybelle had her own quiet magic (Millie had told Marianne the kitten was descended from temple cats! Such an exotic idea to Marianne), but mostly she chose to 'help' Marianne by sleeping on her assignments.

"Goodbye, apartment. I'll see you next term," she said to the empty room that she'd tidied to spotlessness in case it was broken into while she was gone. She didn't want burglars to judge how she lived.

And with that she made her way home.

When she got there, Ulverscote was buzzing.

Something, they said, was wrong at the Castle.

"Joe's not going to be by for another few days, Marianne, so it's up to you to find out if this is going to cause us trouble," said her father. They'd made up, mostly, over the years but she wasn't sure they'd ever be that close again. And he of all the family hadn't gotten over giving her tasks like she was their agent.

"Merry Christmas to you too, dad," said Marianne. "Do I even have time to unpack my bags?" She stood in the doorway to her childhood home.

Her mother glared at her father and pulled Marianne in from the cold.

"It's not that, love," said her mother, "but we think it might be best if you went _immediately_ to the castle. Our man there came down to say that things were a bit queer, then he stopped coming at all. When our Gammer tried to go to find out what was going on, she didn't come back. Your father's being abrupt but he's _very_ worried. I'm worried."

Her mother held Marianne's hands.

"You're so powerful, girl. If something's gone wrong up there, some experiment, some wizard, I'm sure you could solve it. We've even tried calling His name out, to make him come to us but that hasn't worked either. We need our Gammer back, right quick."

Her father snorted his agreement.

Marianne's stomach would have sank either way, but the disappearance part of the story was giving her a very bad feeling.

"I'll go right away, mum," she said. "Will you take care of my cat?"

"Of course we'll take care of your cat!" said her father, then grabbed her into a tight hug. "Be safe. Use your powers." 

"And remember the exits," added her mother. 

Dwimmer magic, thought Marianne, was all about simple things like that. The fantastical made small. The wizards who taught her at Chrestomanci Castle would be talking about using sacred geometric circles, the right mix of powders to unlock a portal, all that. But when it got down to it, it was the exits.

She was afraid though. Irene was powerful. Everyone else at the castle was even more so.

She walked to the Castle, using her powers to will away the cold. She didn't want to risk a horse being hurt if she took it along with her.

The roads and paths to the castle were covered in snow. No footprints, no shoveling. Three times she had to go and retrace her steps, as she had found herself going quite the wrong way to reach it. Something did not want her near. Well, something hadn't reckoned with how well she knew this land.

She waded through the snow and magic, until she got to the front door of the castle. It recognized her and opened with a light click. She was always welcome in the Castle, Millie had told her, like the others, when Marianne left to learn more from the world.

There was no one inside. Or was there? She heard footsteps.

Fast paced ones, just on the edge of her hearing. They were tapping out a rhythm. 

She went further in the castle. Figures moved just out of the corners of her eyes and they were not cats. She noted them and waited until the right moment, spinning and freezing one in place.

"Hello," she said. 

The girl struggled, but her feet would not let her move from where Marianne had caught her. She had dark skin and light curly hair. She wasn't dressed any way Marianne had ever seen before. She was wearing… furs? And just furs.

The girl cursed at her.

"Come on now," said Marianne, every hair on her arms and neck rising. Any moment now, one of the other figures could lunge for her. "I just want to talk."

It was so sudden she barely realized it as another figure leapt from the side and slammed into her, sending her at the wall and… through it? She didn't feel herself make contact with the wall and found herself in a shadowy version of the castle. 

"Think you're smart, do you?" said the tackler, who looked like an older version of the girl she'd had stuck.

Marianne blinked, trying to bring the world around her into focus. The world did not oblige.

"Well, you'll dance for us like the others." The girl reached for Marianne's hair to yank her up, but Marianne was already moving, casting up a glamour to make herself look like the captured girl from before. Her attacker stared, hesitating before Marianne ran. Of course, not before also freezing this girl into place as well.

"First one's stuck there until I let her free anyway," muttered Marianne to herself as she ran. "Good enough disguise as any."

This shadowy castle had the same layout as the real thing. Most of it was shaded and murky, waving like it was seen through water. But Marianne would come across objects that seemed to glow and be solid. Marianne grabbed them as she ran. They felt important. They were all small. Marbles. Thimbles. Earrings without mates.

If people were dancing, Marianne reasoned, it would be in the ballroom. This was her fault, she lamented. She'd sent everyone in the castle off to marry elves. Or whatever it was that happened when you danced for them. Those girls that attacked her could _not_ have been from her world.

She skidded through the halls, working to keep her disguise in place. She ran past more of these strange elf-like people who looked more at home in this strange, unsolid, place than they had any right to. They all wore furs and looked at her with great disdain, but none stopped her. 

Eventually she made it to the ballroom, pockets filled with the little glowing objects she'd found.

She burst out through the shadows and into the real world again. Her father had been right: Mind the exits. There was one there, just out of the corner of her mind. The objects in her pockets began to vibrate, but she had no time for that now. 

In the middle of the ballroom floor danced Millie, Janet, Julia, and Irene. They were in the arms of fur-clothed men, dark skin and light curly hair. Their faces were lined with exhaustion and they wore the tatters of shoes.

Marianne's stomach sank.

Then her eyes looked to the side and saw the man. He was tall and broad. He had more furs than any she'd seen so far. She saw tiger, jaguar, bear, somehow he stood with the weight of all that on him. And in his hands he held two glowing orbs. 

The glow was the same as the bits and bobs she'd found in the spiritlike version of the castle.

Then the horrible man turned and looked at Marianne. His face was blank and she felt as if she were nothing more than a unpleasant smell to him.

"You!" he said in a flat tone and Marianne's heart skipped a beat before remembering she was disguised. So she stood to attention and walked in calmly. If she was going to undo her damage, she had to keep her head. She met his eyes.

As she got up to the man, he placed the orbs in a pouch on his front and snatched her face tight. He gripped hard.

"What a bold girl you are," he said coldly. "You think a glamour can fool me when you can't even act the part?"

Ah, realized Marianne.

Maybe there was something to how rude these invaders seemed to be.

So she did the first thing that occurred to her, which was drive her knee up between his legs with the same force she'd use if she was, somehow, in a situation where she had to crack an entire bag of walnuts with her thigh.

He looked surprised. So incredibly surprised.

She heard a smashing noise. She'd hit more than him, she'd crushed the orbs too.

He fell to the ground. Chrestomanci and Cat popped out of his pouch. 

"I think that's the first time the Dright's sat in years," said Chrestomanci.

On the dancefloor Millie was the first to break free, slapping her dance partner with such force he collided with the wall and must have passed into the shadowy realm. Cat rushed to help her deal with the other three.

"Your pockets, what have you got there?" said Chrestomanci quickly, waving his hands in a binding spell over the Dright that Marianne could tell wouldn't hold him. She tried to add her own power as she answered.

"Little things. They seemed important." She held out her hands, trying to will this 'Dright' not to rise up and kill them.

"They are!" said Chrestomanci, "that's the staff's souls! Come on, toss them out! We need all the help we can get!"

The room began filling with two parties: the helpers of the Dright who seemed to appear out of thin air (minus the two that Marianne had caught) and the staff, alive and angry as their prisons were broken.

Millie was at the forefront of the defense against the Dright's helpers.

"I've had quite enough of this!" said Millie, standing tall. Her plain, pleasant face looked exhausted and angry. 

Marianne looked around and saw something she wasn't expecting.

Another exit. But this one wasn't for her, not at all.

It led to something so alien it warped the magic around it. 

"Lady Chant!" called out Marianne. She felt a bit of formality was called for if she'd somehow been the reason elves had kidnapped the Chant family. "They came from there!" She pointed at the exit, hoping that was enough for the others to find it.

"Everyone!" cried Millie, "heave ho!" 

The staff and the Chants and all the other poor visitors of the castle caught up in this mess 'heaved' as one and the Dright's helpers found themselves flying into the exit, like a vacuum sucking up dust.

The Dright followed, ripping up the floorboards of the ballroom as he tried to resist the power of so many powerful sorcerers.

"One last effort!" called out Chrestomanci. The Dright was sucked in. And with that the exit slammed shut with a finality that Marianne doubted it would ever open again.

"He never did forgive me for getting Mordecai's soul back, you know," said Chrestomanci. "Or cheating him of one of my lives. Didn't expect him to show up again in my lifetimes."

"What?" asked Marianne. She could feel the shadowy oher castle fading and everyone in general was looking more solid and calm.

"That fellow is the 'leader' of Series 11. You remember, don't you? He killed all the worlds in his series. I suppose it wasn't too important to your studies… Well, he came by over a fortnight ago to make a nuisance of himself." Chrestomanci made a show of dusting his coat sleeves. "He's not as strong where he's not in charge, thank goodness." 

"I could sleep for weeks," said Millie, collapsing in a summoned chair. "Oh Marianne, I'm so glad you showed up. I don't think my magic could have kept us from being transformed into soul pieces any longer."

"Mm," said Julia, rubbing Janet's hand. "Once they exhausted us, they bundled us up into little bits and pieces. We were the last hold outs."

"I never got a chance to dance," said Cat. "I'm rather glad of it. Hello, Marianne."

"Hello, Cat."

"Sir, we must be so behind on work…" said Chrestomanci's secretary at his elbow. "I know we're all very relieved to be free but needs of the kingdom, sir." 

Chrestomanci's face went very vague and he nodded. "We'll deal with Christmas preparations later." He walked off.

Marianne sat beside Millie. "Those were the eleveners? The elves?" she said, wide-eyed. "They're not like the fair folk from Ulverscote at all."

"No. And I doubt they'll be coming back after we gave them the what for," said Millie. She took Marianne's hand. "You walked right up to him! You didn't even flinch. You never cease to surprise me, Marianne Pinhoe."

"I thought he had no idea I wasn't who I pretended to be," confessed Marianne.

"Hey, there's two left!" yelled a member of the staff and Marianne covered her face. She'd forgotten the two she trapped.

"Two girls," she said to Millie behind her hands. "I… glued them to the floor."

"They're better off here than in Series Eleven, trust me," said Millie. "Once I've… rested a bit more, I'll have a talk with them."

"I think they're sisters," said Marianne. She willed Millie's shoes to repair themselves.

Millie nodded, looking thoughtful.

"How are your feet?" asked Marianne.

"I need a hot bath," said Millie. "Welcome for Christmas, dear. Did you bring anything for me to read?"

Marianne did the math of when she'd sent the stories. Two weeks ago. They'd been trapped for a bit longer than that. So… she couldn't say, one way or the other if it had been her fault. As usual. It was time to find a new genre at any rate.

"Sort of. I don't think you're going to like these ones though."

"Oh, I always like yours. You know that."

"Well, give me time to rewrite the ending. I think I have a much better solution for what happens to the elven king."


End file.
